


Yavin Street

by ZiggyStardust02



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bisexual Finn (Star Wars), Bisexual Poe Dameron, Comedy, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Romance, Romantic Comedy, rey's kind of chaotic in this one, somewhat of a fluff fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:27:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27516847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZiggyStardust02/pseuds/ZiggyStardust02
Summary: Rey is a kind but strong-willed bookstore owner. Finn is a down-on-his-luck journalist. Poe is the charming-yet-brash campaign manager for Leia Organa. Ben Solo is an intensely private director. And they all live in the same apartment building on Yavin Street. Star Wars Modern AU. An open-ended series.
Relationships: Finn & Jannah (Star Wars), Poe Dameron/Finn, Poe Dameron/Jessika Pava, Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18
Collections: Favorite Star Wars Modern AUs, Star Wars





	1. The Coruscant Times & Peanut M&Ms

The best thing about Coruscant City, New York is that no one pays attention to you. And the worst thing about Coruscant City, New York is that _no one pays attention to you._ When you're walking through the city feeling and looking like absolute shit, you're both relieved that no one's noticing you while simultaneously feeling irrevocably alone.

Fired and broken up with. Both within eight hours of each other.

Finn had worked at the First Order Journal for nine months as an "entry-level journalist", when in actuality he was more of a glorified intern. Coffee orders and making copies with the occasional human interest story thrown at him. But he was almost glad that he wasn't given any "big" stories, because the First Order Journal isn't exactly...admirable. They tend to favor sensationalism, stories in GIANT CAPITAL LETTERS with little to no substance, and he didn't really want his name heavily associated with that kind of journalism. So he floated through the job, hoping for something better to eventually come along but really not actively looking.

This morning, he came into the office of his editor-in-chief, Ms. Phasma, with her usual coffee order: black and iced. Even her coffee order is terrifying. He set it down on her desk and went to leave when she asked him to sit down.

Phasma didn't waste any time or beat around the bush. She looked him right in the eye and said, "I'm afraid we're going to have to let you go."

He eventually sputtered out a "Wha-why?"

She laced her fingers together and set them on her desk. "I believe it is my responsibility to let people know whether or not they're cut out for this line of work from the get-go, before they waste their lives in a world they'll never succeed in." She mustered her best sympathetic expression and said, "I don't want you to waste your life, Finn."

Phasma isn't in the big leagues, but she still has been working in the industry for twenty-plus years. She knows the ins and outs of it more than Finn does, so when she told him that he wasn't cut out for a career he had dreamed of pursuing since he was fourteen, it didn't exactly feel like a warm hug.

And then everything got significantly worse somehow. He had gotten a single text from Rose as he walked home with his box full of stuff from his cubicle:

**We need to talk when I get home.**

He almost texted her that he got fired, but he deleted it. Rose was an inherently, sometimes annoyingly considerate girlfriend, and she probably would've indefinitely delayed the talk until it stewed into an outburst. He thought it was best to get it over with now.

He didn't really internalize the thought that she might want to break up with him...until she broke up with him. He didn't ask why this time, because he _knew_ why:

Finn is certifiably bad at relationships. He's either a) too distant, or b) too attached. For this relationship, he went with A. For most of his relationships over the last four years, he's gone with A. It hasn't worked out super well so far; if it had, he wouldn't be wandering around the city with a lukewarm to-go cup of coffee, feeling like a garbage human. He's staying at a friend's place until he can find somewhere else to go, but he doesn't feel like going inside just yet. He wants to be around people and listen to them existing for a bit.

Not paying attention to his surroundings, Finn nearly knocks into a newspaper stand. He snaps out of his thoughts and realizes that it's the one he always buys from on Sixty-Sixth Avenue.

He's already on Sixty-Sixth? Damn.

The sun is almost down, the sky a gradient from dark to light. The moon is completely full and unobstructed, and it's the stage of autumn in Coruscant City that isn't dead and grey and depressing. For about three seconds, he forgets that he's supposed to be sad.

Finn hears a familiar voice call his name, and he turns around.

Beebee Dameron leans on the side of her newsstand with her hand in a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos. She's a short woman, with dark curls piled on top of her head, bright brown eyes, and angular features. Finn has never seen her not wearing overalls, always with some type of orange shirt underneath. Today it's a cropped turtleneck.

"The usual?" she asks, reaching for the door to the booth. Her voice resembles a raspy chipmunk, but in a charming way.

"Sure." He always buys the same thing from her every evening: The Coruscant Times and a pack of peanut M&Ms.

Beebee looks over his shoulder. "Where's Rose? I look forward to your cute little evening walks."

Finn shoves his hands in his coat pockets. "She-um, we…we're not…"

Her eyes go wide. "Oh God. Oh no. I'm sorry."

"It's fine. Well, it's not fine. It sucks. But _you're_ fine." He smiles weakly, his eyes feeling tired. "I also got fired."

"Holy shit. Do you need a hug?" She holds out her bag with orange-stained hands. "Or a Cheeto?"

A hug would make him start sobbing, and he's more of a classic Cheeto type of guy. "I'm good, thanks."

Beebee walks to the front of the newsstand, and Finn follows. She rolls up the bag and chucks it into the booth, wiping her hand on her overalls, then starts plucking things on display; a trashy magazine, about five different candy bars, potato chips, a plastic pack of tissues, and of course, the Coruscant Times and peanut M&Ms. "I'm making you a misery care package," she says. "On the house."

"You don't need to…"

"I'm doing this. Do you have a place to crash?"

"Yeah." He scratches the back of his neck. "Yeah. But it's not a long-term solution, so if you know anyone who needs a roommate…"

She thinks as she puts the abundance of items into his arms. "Oh! I know someone."

"Who?"

"My brother's neighbor."

"I already know that I can't afford wherever your brother lives." Her brother, Poe Dameron, is the campaign manager for Leia Organa's Congress campaign and one of the biggest young players in New York politics. As opposed to Finn, who was just fired from one of the shittiest news sources on the east coast.

She waves it off. "He insists on having a crappy one-bedroom in the Kuat District. It keeps him humble, or something."

Finn catches his packet of M&Ms with the tips of his fingers before it lands on the concrete.

"I met his neighbor a few times. She's cute as a button. British girl, owns a bookstore below the apartments." She reaches over the counter, grabs a paper bag, and holds it out under his arms. "Wears a lot of sweaters."

Finn pours all the crap in his arms into the bag and she hands it to him. "Is she a Nora Ephron character?"

"She's a sweetheart. You two would hit it off."

"I feel like you're trying to set me up."

"Not with _her._ " She waves him off. "This is an indirect way of setting you up with my brother."

"Beebee, I broke up with my girlfriend forty-five minutes ago." Finn says this lightly, but he's hit by a wave of sadness that makes his limbs feel heavy. Saying it out loud makes it ten times worse and times more real.

She looks at him, concerned. "You need to go home."

His shoulders slump. He looks down at the concrete, eyes starting to sting with tears. "Yeah, I do."

Beebee pats his arm affectionately. "Sometimes you have to start over. And it's not always a bad thing."

* * *

This flat has a lot of things wrong with it. Half of the windows don't open, the floors creak too much, the landlord is an arse, the hallway lights go out all the time, but her main gripe with it is _the_ *cue dramatic music* _laundry room._

Maybe that sounds incredibly trivial, but try living in a building where there's one functioning washer and dryer, and then try sharing that washer and dryer with eight other flats, and then you will understand the "Yellow Wallpaper"-level spiral into insanity that you have to fight off every single laundry day.

Anyway, Rey promises not to stay on this laundry thing long, because it can't be that interesting, but she set up a system in place. A consensus-based arrangement that catered to each individual schedule, meticulously planned and unanimously agreed on by all eight tenants who use the washer and dryer. The first thing she tried was asking the landlord if he would fix all the other washers and dryers, but he said no, like he says no to everything.

All of this is to say that SOME PEOPLE don't FOLLOW THE SCHEDULE even though they SAID THAT THEY WOULD and NOW REY DOESN'T HAVE ANY CLEAN CLOTHES TO INTERVIEW HER POSSIBLE ROOMMATE IN BESIDES A SWEATER THAT SAYS "KISS ME, I'M BRITISH" AND MOM JEANS.

She stomps up the stairs and bangs on the door of flat 2A with her forearm.

She hears footsteps coming toward the door, then it opens a sliver, still limited by the chain. She sees half of Poe Dameron's face.

"Good _morning._ " She says begrudgingly.

"You knock like you're busting a drug deal."

She frowns at him. "You broke the schedule. Again."

He unhooks the chain off the door and swings it open.

Poe Dameron is a short-ish man in his early thirties-dark curly hair, a square-jawed face, deep-set brown eyes that always look just a little exhausted. He's still in his pajamas, an AC/DC t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. She had a crush on him for about three days after he moved in, then quickly got over it once she got to know his personality.

And it's not a Sam-and-Diane-I-argue-with-you-so-much-because-I-actually-am-attracted-to-you type situation that only works on TV. It's an I-argue-with-you-because-you're-legitimately-annoying-and-our-personalities-are-inherently-incompatible type situation.

He reads the lettering on her sweater. "I'd rather not."

She crosses her arms. "You have _Wednesdays_ and _Saturdays._ I have _Mondays_ and _Fridays._ "

"What day is it again?"

"It's Monday!"

He winces at her voice, gingerly touches his forehead. "Dear Lord, woman. Some people are hungover."

"Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"It's one of my very, very, _very_ few days off. I have a date at twelve." He looks down at his pajamas. "And I'm not going to look like this."

"I have a roommate interview at twelve. And I'm not going to look like _this._ Can't you go to the laundromat?"

"I already told you, I was told to never go to that laundromat after the Red Shirt Incident. Can't _you_ go to the laundromat?"

"No. The guy's a creep. He always watches me separate my delicates…" She squints at him. "What's the Red Shirt Incident?"

"You don't wanna know." He rubs his eyes. "Listen, I really don't have the mental capacity right now to care about your authoritarian laundry system. Bye bye."

"Wait-"

He slams the door in front of her.

Rey lets out a frustrated puff of air. She looks across the hall at flat 3A. Ben Solo's apartment, the landlord's nephew. Normally, she would knock on the door and ask him if she could use his washer and dryer, and he would say yes, no matter how exasperated he was by the request. But ever since New Year's, it's been weird. Why did he have to make it weird?

Her phone buzzes in her pocket.

She slides it out and sees there's a notification from her possibly new roommate, Finn:

**Sorry, here early. Overestimated traffic.**

"Shit," she mutters.


	2. Tangled Up In Blue

Finn checks his watch. 11:05 AM. He's always painfully early to things. That's why he never goes to parties. He also, you know, never gets invited to them.

Before him stands a red-bricked building, about five stories tall. The first floor is a bookstore with a little yellow door; above the door is a white-washed wooden sign that reads _The Sacred Texts_.

The other four stories look like any other apartment building in this city; a neat line of windows on each floor, a fire escape zig-zagging across the front. He notices a yellow flower pot on the windowsill, but it doesn't have anything in it.

He approaches the yellow door, which he now realizes has white stars painted all over it, and opens it.

Finn steps inside, the store bell chiming. The smell of dusty paper immediately wafts into his nose. The main room of the shop is small and low-ceiling, and books are...everywhere. Crammed in every possible place on the numerous bookshelves, stacked on the floor until they reach the ceiling-there's an old flowery grandma's house-looking couch in the middle of the room, but the only things sitting on it are (you guessed it!) _books_. He looks hard, trying to find any visible wall space, but he doesn't find any. Only books. Books, books, books. There's a wonderful sort of insanity about it.

He steps further into the store, the floor creaking under the mismatched rugs beneath his feet.

There's soft music playing-it's faint, but he recognizes it as some Bob Dylan song. He vaguely remembers hearing it someplace else before, but he can't remember where.

A soft, female voice hums along with it.

He was so enraptured by the abundance of books that he didn't notice the woman in the corner behind the cash register; she's probably around Finn's age-dark skin, coily black hair, large brown eyes. She's dressed like a certifiable hippie, a yellow shawl draped over her shoulders, several beaded necklaces, rings on every finger. But she pulls it off.

She looks up from her copy of _Howards End_ and jumps a little. "Oh, hi. Didn't see you come in." Her voice is distinctly British, and she has a gap in her teeth.

Finn panics just a little. Okay, so she's pretty. She's got that bohemian thing going on but in a non-annoying I-won't-try-to-sell-you-essential-oils type of way. And she's _British._

He can't have a roommate that he's attracted to again. He already had a roommate that he was attracted to, and it didn't turn out so well.

"Can I help you with anything?" the woman raises her eyebrows.

Did he not respond? Shit. "No." _That_ was a super unintentionally aggressive no.

She frowns at him. "Okay."

"I mean...yeah, actually. Is your name _Rey,_ by chance?" He shoves his hands in his pockets.

The woman shakes her head. "No. Jannah. Are you Finn…" she looks down at a piece of paper on the counter. "...Tewone?" She pronounces his last name like _Too-woan-ay._ "Is that how you say it?"

"Close enough. It's _Tewone,_ like the numbers two-one."

"Weird." She goes back to reading her book.

He walks closer to the counter. "Do you know if she's here?" Rey had left him on Read.

She nods, not looking up. "She'll be down in a-"

Another woman emerges from the back room.

"There she is," Jannah says drily, still focused on her book. "Rey, this is the male stranger that wants to live in your flat. It's pronounced _Two-one,_ by the way."

The second woman's pale with bright eyes, her brown hair chopped into a short bob. She's _also_ dressed eclectically: the jeans she's wearing look about three times too big, as well as her gray sweater, which reads "KISS ME, I'M BRITISH" with little kissy lips and UK flags surrounding it.

Her mouth turns into a toothy, awkward smile as she holds out her hand. "Nice to meet you, Finn."

He shakes it, surprised by how strong her grip is. "Nice to meet you, too-again, sorry about being so early. Habit of mine."

She lets go and smooths her hands over her sweater. "I'll forgive you, as long as you forgive me for this atrocious outfit. Laundry day."

Jannah reads the shirt and snorts. "Glad to see you're making use out of my Christmas present."

"Shut up."

She mock-sheepishly raises her book in front of her face.

" _Anyway,"_ Rey says, focusing back on Finn. "The flat's on the third floor, if you want to see it."

"I'd love to."

" _Sure, strange man whom I met over the internet,"_ Jannah says mockingly, making her voice high-pitched and ditzy. " _I'll invite you to my flat, where I live alone, and where there's absolutely no witnesses…"_

Finn panics again, looks at Rey. "I have recommendations, if you need them. And you can do a background check, or a drug test, or whatever. I haven't committed a single crime in my life. Besides that one time I forgot to return a library book, but that's only because I lost it, or else I _totally_ would've returned it-oh, and I drank beer once when I was sixteen because I was trying to impress this guy, but it was disgusting. It tasted like someone burped in a can-"

"You talk a lot for an innocent man, Finn," Jannah says, squinting. "If that's even your _real_ name."

"Please ignore her," Rey says. "She watches a lot of true crime. Follow me."

* * *

Rey hums the song that was playing in the shop as she climbs up the last flight of stairs, Finn following her.

"'Tangled up in Blue'," he says suddenly.

"Mm?"

"That's the Bob Dylan song that was playing, right?"

"You know it?"

"Yeah. My ex, Rose...she used to play it in her sets."

"Wait-" Rey stops at the top of the stairs, turns around. "Rose _Tico?_ "

He presses his lips together, nods. "That's her."

"Oh my god, I _love_ her," she blurts.

He clears his throat, eyes darting to the floor.

A wave of guilt washes over Rey. _Maybe_ don't _fangirl over someone's ex right in front of them,_ she thinks to herself. "That was very, very emotionally insensitive of me." She turns around, starts walking up the stairs.

"You're okay," Finn says. "She's pretty damn good at what she does, so she has a lot of fans. I'm used to it." There's a stretch of awkward silence, then he asks, "How long have you lived in the States?" This is clearly his attempt at a subject change.

"Since I was thirteen. I lived in Nevada for five years, came here when I was eighteen."

"Which one's better?"

"Nevada and New York or the US and the UK?"

"The US and the UK. Anything's better than Nevada."

"I'd be mad at you if you weren't right," she says. "I get asked that question a lot. Both countries have their strengths and weaknesses, really. America has better weather, better restaurants-though don't tell anyone British that I said that. But _my god,_ Americans are obnoxious. And have this weird obsession with pizza. The UK has better chocolate, _much_ better Shakespeare...don't get me started on how Americans do Shakespeare."

"I kind of want to."

"They try too hard." She reaches the top of the stairs and walks toward her red apartment door, digging for her key in her pocket. "Shakespeare's _Shakespeare._ The words speak for themselves."

"' _Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more.'_ " His voice is suddenly rhythmic, losing all of its awkwardness.

She smiles, finishes: "' _It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.'_ "

"Depressing as hell," Finn says.

"It's MacBeth!"

"He could still throw in a joke or two."

She finds her key and sticks it into the door, laughing softly. He's a little bit odd, but Rey likes him.

"Are you a writer or just a reader?" he asks.

"I write some things. Here and there. Nothing like Shakespeare," she yanks the key out, "or Bob Dylan."

He wrinkles up his face. "They're both overrated."

"Oh, don't be one of _those people._ " She throws the door open and steps to the side. "Here. You first."

Her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out of her pocket. A text from Jannah is on the lock screen:

**murdered yet?**

She types back furiously:

**He's really nice, you freak.**

Jannah replies:

**all serial killers are nice...at first**

He steps inside the flat, and Rey closes the door. She slides her phone back in her pocket, ignoring Jannah's last message.

Finn shrugs off his jean jacket, draping it over his arm. He's broad shouldered and short, with deep brown skin, thin but expressive eyes, and short black hair in twists at the top of his scalp. He looks a little older than Rey, but not by much.

"Nice place," he says.

"Do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? I'll make us some tea. Feel free to look around." She sets her key on the counter and strides over to her tiny yellow kitchen, suddenly feeling insecure.

Her flat isn't much. It's basically one of those tiny homes that she's seen on TV, except instead of it being tiny for wanting to "live simply" or whatever bullshit reason they always go on about, it's because she's a twenty-one year old single girl that single-handedly owns a used book shop and can't afford anything else.

At the not-so-far end of this room is the sitting area, which consists of two old blue armchairs, a small television with crappy picture, and a bench in front of two sunny windows. She has mismatched paintings, photos, and dried flowers scattered across the white walls. Finn wanders into that part of the room, and she notices that he's looking at the empty yellow flower pot in the window.

"I keep forgetting to put something in it," she says, filling her kettle with water. She sets it on the stove and turns on the burner. "I figure if you need someplace for a desk, we could move that bench. There's plenty of sun."

His eyes wander to the small loft above the kitchen.

"Your room is up there," Rey says, a little shyly, although she made it clear that it was barely a bedroom in the ad. "Wait, look. I set something up."

Rey rushes over to the loft ladder and climbs up it, gesturing for Finn to come along.

The loft bedroom is approximately four and a half feet tall (she measured). She's rigged up some paper lanterns to line the ceiling as the only source of light.

She hoists herself onto the loft floor and crawls across the gated edge.

Finn remains standing at the top of the ladder. She can tell from the way his eyes are darting all over that he's figuring out where he would hypothetically put his stuff.

"Look-" she pulls open a creaky separation screen, putting a divider between her and Finn "-privacy."

Silence from the other end.

"Is this a dumb idea? This is a dumb idea…"

"No, it's not. It's perfect," he says. "But I have to go."

She opens the screen again.

His face looks troubled, his mind somewhere else entirely.

"Is everything alright?"

"Yeah, it is. I just need to go...do something." He clambers down the ladder. "It was nice meeting you. Great place. But I really, _really_ need to go do something."

"Let me know if you…"

The door slams shut.

"...Rude." Rey sighs. She looks down at her sweater in disdain and pulls it off, throwing it off of the loft's edge. She lies down in her sports bra on the loft floor, looking up at the paper lanterns. "Bad day," she mutters to herself.

The kettle whistles.

* * *

If life is _'a tale told by an idiot,"_ like Shakespeare so pretentiously said, then Finn's the idiot. An idiot that has a lot of things to fix.

The realization came when he was looking at that little loft bedroom. _You'll have to buy a new bed,_ he thought to himself.

That sounds like a stupid thought to send you chasing after your ex-girlfriend, but it made him thinking of sleeping alone in a place that he's not used to. It made him think of starting over.

Finn doesn't like starting over. Throughout his life he's had to deal with an endless amount of new beginnings, of new beds and new places, and at a certain point you get sick of it.

Rose feels like the end of starting over. She's steady, safe. She's one of the few steady, safe things that he's had in his twenty-four years of living. And he's not going to mess that up by continuing to keep her at arm's length. He'll get over his fear of letting people in for her. He'll do anything for her.

He turns on seventy-seventh and picks up his pace, spotting Rose's (and formerly _his_ ) concrete apartment building. Her window's open. She's home.

Finn makes it to the crosswalk, but his feet freeze at the edge of the curb. His brain tells them to move, but they stay firmly planted.

Something catches his eye. It's a flower shop to the right of the apartment building that he's seen a countless amount of times, but he's never really paid attention to it. He's never even gone into it. Flowers of different shades of pink and yellow are on display along the white-washed storefront, swaying slightly in the fall breeze.

He watches the flowers move for a moment, almost in a meditative state. Will he do anything for Rose, or will he do anything for the _safety_ of Rose?

He remembers Beebee's words: " _Sometimes you have to start over. And it's not always a bad thing._ "

Most of his starting overs have been unbeneficial and completely, utterly shitty. But there's been a few that have been good, however painful they were. This could be one of those good ones.

His chest feels tight, but he knows what to do. He crosses the street, forces himself past Rose's apartment building, and goes into the flower shop.

* * *

Rey hoists her grocery totes up her arms and opens the door to her book shop, stepping inside. That stupid song still stuck in her head. She hasn't been able to shake the sadness that she's felt ever since Finn left so abruptly.

She doesn't have a lot of friends. She has Jannah, and she has that nice little old lady at the bodega, and she guesses that Poe is a sort of frenemy, and she _used_ to have Ben...but that's about it.

It's been like that ever since her parents died, ever since she moved to the States. Rey's become self-sufficient out of necessity, and that self-sufficiency has developed into a sort of stubborn loneliness.

She doesn't let people in unless she wholly trusts them, and there was something trustworthy about Finn. He was easy to talk to, too. She wouldn't mind him as a roommate, even if he thinks Shakespeare is overrated and Jannah thinks he's a serial killer.

Jannah steps down from the book ladder at the sight of Rey. "The vintage Brontë collection came in," she says. "Don't know where you want me to put it. And that one flighty bloke came in, dropped something off."

"Finn?"

"Yeah. On the counter."

She walks over to the counter, sets her groceries on the floor.

Tiny white flowers poke out of a plastic cup of soil, sitting under the dusty Tiffany lamp.

"Why the hell did he get you flowers?" Jannah says. "I tell you, something's off about that guy."

There's a little note taped to the cup. She rips it off and reads his spiky, messy handwriting:

_Here's some apology flowers for running out on you. Please put it in that pot that you keep forgetting to fill. The more I think about what I'm doing, the cornier it is, but I already spent ten bucks on these things. I'd keep them for myself, but I've never been able to keep a plant alive for more than a week. I'm a horrible plant parent. I'm also running out of space on this post-it note._

_\- Finn :)_

She grins and pulls out her phone. She opens his contact and types:

**I demand that you be my roommate.**

About thirty seconds later, he texts back:

**Do I get a choice in the matter?**

Rey responds:

**Nope.**


	3. Morning Takeout

"Don't be an asshole…"

Poe fumbles with his keys, pressing his phone into his shoulder with the side of his face. "I'm not being an _asshole,_ Bee, I just can't really budge my schedule today."

"It's one family dinner!" The phone speaker crackles at the volume of her voice. "You know dad's rule: unless you're in the hospital or meeting the president…"

"...you don't miss family dinner," he finishes.

"Are you _in_ the hospital?"

"...No."

"Are you _meeting_ the president?"

"God, I hope not."

"Then you can come to family dinner."

He finds his apartment key and sticks it into the doorknob, locking his apartment up. "It's this CNN thing. I can't exactly cancel it."

"You can't get someone else to do it?"

"No." He makes his way toward the stairs.

"Why not?"

"Well-technically I _can,_ but I shouldn't."

Beebee sighs dramatically. "No, no, I get it. You would rather argue on live TV than have a nice dinner with your lonely old father."

"You know that's not-"

"' _The cat's in the cradle and the silver spoon…'"_ she starts singing, " _...blah blah blah and the man in the moon…_ "

"You don't even know the words."

"'" _When you coming home, son?"' '"I don't know when."' But we'll get together then, daaad. We're gonna have a good time thennnn…"_

"Are you done?"

"I have several songs about negligent sons in my catalogue," she says.

"I'm not _negligent,_ I'm just _busy._ "

"Tomato, tomahto."

He puts his phone back into his hand and starts walking down the steps. "What's he making?"

"Your favorite. That fried thing with the chicken."

"What time?"

"Seven, like always."

"What about eight?"

"Too late. I'll be hungry by then."

"Eat a snack or something." He nods at a takeout guy as he passes him on the stairs, the smell of Chinese food wafting through the stairwell. Speaking of food, he forgot to eat breakfast. "Listen, I can either do eight o'clock or just not come. I'm sorry. I don't mean to be some work-obsessed jerk, but this job requires a work-obsessed jerk sometimes."

"You're not a jerk," she says. "You're just…"

"I'm just…?"

"I get worried about you. I know dad gets worried about you, too."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine."

There's a pause that's filled with phone static, then she says, "I'll ask Dad about eight. Can't promise he'll be too _happy_ about it…"

"Tell him I'll make _polvorosas_."

"Speaking of _polvorosas,_ how was your date?"

"What do _polvorosas_ have to do with my date?"

"Nothing, I just really want to know how it went and couldn't think of a segway."

"It was absolute horse shit." He reaches the bottom of the flight of stairs, enters the small lobby with dingy black-and-white checkered floors. He notices that the door to the outside is propped open, the cold autumn air rushing in.

"Oh," Beebee says, disappointed.

"He insisted on paying, then didn't tip the waitress. And he must've drank, like, three glasses of milk."

"What adult man drinks milk?"

" _That_ adult man, apparently. He's single handedly keeping the dairy industry alive. I also told him that I've never seen _The Godfather._ You would've thought that I said I kick puppies for sport."

"You've never seen _The Godfather?_ "

He groans. "Not you, too."

" _I've_ even seen _The Godfather._ And you know I hardly ever watch movies."

"Because you have the attention span of a fruit fly." He pulls his coat closed, shielding himself against a burst of cold wind.

"I don't deserve this _abuse."_

Poe hears a muffled voice coming from her end.

"Oh, gotta go," Beebee says. "Customer."

"'Kay. Love you. Eat something besides cheetos for lunch, alright?"

"Love you too. No promises. Byeeeeee-" She hangs up.

He lowers his phone from his ear and checks his phone's notifications. Thirty-two emails and twenty-one texts. And it's only 7:30.

He opens a text from Jessika Pava:

**Remember: going over CNN notes at 2.**

He texts back:

**Actually, I'm thinking of just winging it…**

It doesn't take long for her to text back:

**Haha! Very funny!**

A follow-up text:

**Wexley says to get your ass to HQ.**

A follow-up to the follow-up:

**And get me a bagel. Sesame seed, extra cream cheese. That vegan kind if you go to the place with the vegan kind.**

A follow-up to the follow-up to the follow-up:

**Please. Best boss ever! :)**

Poe sends a thumbs up and slides his phone into the inside pocket of his coat.

" _Shit. Dammit. Ow. Shit. Dammit. Son of a…_ " An unfamiliar voice mutters, coming from the outside.

Poe walks outside.

A young man sets down a box with a broken bottom, crouches down, picks up a large volume that had landed on his sneakered foot. He pulls out his phone and sends out a text, then starts putting the books into stacks, not noticing Poe.

Next to him is an old blue Volkswagen beetle, its trunk propped open and filled with boxes.

Poe looks at his watch. 7:34. He might be pushing it, but he'll feel guilty if he just ignores the guy and goes on his way. He crouches down and picks up a book that's landed in a puddle.

He uses his coat sleeve to wipe off the hard cover, reads the title: _The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes._

"Thank you," the man says earnestly, finally noticing him.

Poe hands him the book, starts putting the rest of them into the stacks that the stranger has already set up. "No problem."

"You really don't need to…" He pauses mid-sentence, studying his face. "You're Poe Dameron."

Poe can't tell from his tone whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. "Last time I checked," he says.

The corner of his mouth twitches into a smile, then goes down again. "I'm friends with your sister, Beebee. I don't think we've met." He holds out his hand, and Poe shakes it. "Finn Tewone. I'm Rey Jakku's new roommate."

 _Finn Tewone._ He recognizes his name, but he can't remember from where.

Their hands pull away-there's a weirdly prolonged amount of eye contact where Poe tries to remember if he's met him before, then they go back to stacking books.

"This is what I get for getting moving boxes from the Dollar Tree…" he says begrudgingly, picking up a copy of _Ten Days in a Mad-House_ by Nellie Bly. He has a lot of books by journalists, autobiographies of journalists…

It clicks.

"Do you work for the _First Order Journal_?"

Finn looks up at him, his expression suddenly guilty. "Not anymore."

"Too bad. You were the best writer they had."

His face lights up. "You've read my stuff?"

"'Leia Organa Is Not As Advertised'," he quotes the title.

That light quickly goes out. "Oh. Shit."

"It's the first thing I've read from the FOJ that I actually thought was good. No offense."

"Offend away. They fired me. But aren't you Organa's campaign manager?"

He nods.

"It's been a while since I wrote it, but I'm pretty sure I called her an aristocrat that's advertising herself as working-class as a way of pandering to voters."

"You hit the nail on the head." Poe smiles at him teasingly. "That's exactly what we're doing."

"Well I'm glad you liked it, I guess?"

"Oh, I didn't like it. It pissed me off. But it was the most well-written pissing off that I've ever experienced."

Finn shrugs. " _Most_ journalism is well-written pissing off," he says. "And I kind of gave it my all, considering it's the only hard news my boss ever gave me."

"Where're you working now?"

Finn frowns, picks up the last book. "Nowhere."

* * *

Rey sets the bag of Chinese food on her rickety kitchen table, picking open one of the boxes inside and popping a dumpling in her mouth.

Her phone bloops next to the bag. She picks it up and looks at the screen:

**Book box broke. Can you bring down a laundry basket or something?**

She chews and swallows, then replies:

**One sec**

Rey grabs her laundry basket from her room and rushes out the door, running down the stairs. She turns the blind corner that leads to the lobby staircase, knocking into a large shoulder.

The laundry basket goes clattering loudly down the stairs, and she stumbles backward, her own shoulder stinging.

Her face burns when she sees who she's knocked into.

Ben stands at the stop of the flight of stairs, clutching the work bag slung across his shoulder. He pushes a lengthy strand of black hair out of his face, awkwardly scratches at the side of his long nose. He's wearing a black sweatshirt over his tall, broad-shouldered build, a pen sticking out of the breast pocket. (he always has a pen on him, but never any paper). "I'm sorry, I-"

"Oh, you're fine. You're fine." She waves him off. "You're fine." _Why don't you say "You're fine," one more time, Rey?_

There's a stretch of uncomfortable silence.

"You look good," she blurts. "Did you get a haircut?"

"No."

"Oh." Rey rocks back and forth on her heels.

His brown eyes look up at the ceiling, then down at his shoes. "You got a new roommate?"

"Yeah. His name's Finn. He's a journalist."

"Nice," he mumbles, picking at the brick wall.

"Not a _romantic_ roommate. He's sleeping in the loft."

Ben tenses, his face going slightly pink.

Rey cringes at herself. _Why does it matter? We're not seeing each other._ She clears her throat. "How's the play?"

"Good," He meets her eyes, clearly grateful for a subject change. "Still working out the kinks, but we're on track for opening day."

"What's it called again? _The Light…_ "

" _The Pull to the Light._ It's good. Your stuff's better, but it's good. Except the lead actor's insufferable."

"They're always insufferable."

He has a way of smiling that always looks like he's trying to suppress it. "Have you written anything else since…"

"No," she says, voice unintentionally curt.

Ben's smile falters, eyes suddenly full of conviction. "You should."

She crosses her arms, suddenly feeling cornered. "I have my hands full with the shop."

"Right," he says, unconvinced.

"I have to go help Finn. 'Scuse me." Rey brushes past him, walking quickly down the stairs and picking up her basket in the lobby. She can feel Ben's eyes on her, but he doesn't say anything else.

After a few seconds, Rey hears his footsteps going up the stairs.

That was the longest conversation they've had in about ten months, and it _sucked._ She wishes she had a nearby pillow to scream into.

She walks through the lobby and out the door, onto the sidewalk.

Poe and Finn are in the middle of a conversation, neat stacks of books surrounding them.

Finn looks over Poe's shoulder and spots Rey. He strides toward her and takes the laundry basket. "Thanks."

"Takeout's here."

"Good. I'm starving."

"You're the only person I know that orders takeout at seven o'clock in the morning," Poe says, turning around to face her.

"It's the best time to order it," she says. "No one else is, so it comes very quickly. And the evening shift guy smells like marijuana-it ruins my appetite."

Poe squints at her. "You're a peculiar little Brit." He looks at his watch (he's got one of those obnoxious smart watches) and frowns.

"...And _you're_ gonna be late for work," she says.

He slides his hand into the inside pocket of his coat, digging around for something. "If I don't leave in the next five minutes, yeah. I have to pick up bagels, because apparently I'm their boss _and_ their intern."

"Maybe they don't take you seriously because you're so short." Rey tilts her head. "Have you tried standing on a box? Maybe some heels?"

"I would look _amazing_ in heels. Sadly, they hurt my back." He pulls out a white little card and walks over to Finn, throwing it into the laundry basket. "I might know a guy that could get you a job. Text me." He leans in, stage whispers. "If this is a hostage situation, blink twice."

Finn smiles, says, "I'm really not sure yet."

"Oh, shut it. Both of you."

Poe pats Finn on the arm. "Nice to meet you, Finn."

"Nice to meet you, too."

He nods curtly at Rey. "Rey, always a day ruiner."

"It's my duty," she says.

Poe turns on his heel and walks briskly down the sidewalk.

"God, what an arse," Rey says after he's some distance away.

"Yeah," Finn says, still watching Poe leave. "What an ass."

Rey swats him on the arm.

* * *

Rey can't sleep. She's not used to having another person living in her house, and she's been so caught up in the whole moving-in process that she hasn't taken a second to realize that Finn is, technically, a complete stranger that she invited into her home indefinitely. Of course she doesn't think he's a bad person, but she also doesn't really _know_ him.

She's curled up in her blue living room chair, watching _Pride and Prejudice_ (the 2005 one with Keira Knightley, obviously) and eating some _polvorosas_ that Poe dropped off earlier that night. Well, not _some-_ like half the tin. He may be annoying, but he sure knows how to bake a biscuit.

This is what she always does when she can't sleep-she watches this exact movie and eats a lot of something, preferably something sweet. Usually she has the sound on, but she doesn't want to disturb Finn, so it's on mute.

That's alright, because she already knows about 99% of the lines just by reading their lips.

Rey's been obsessed with this movie ever since she moved to the States. It's like watching a painting.

She's on the part where Elizabeth Bennet and Mr. Darcy are speaking on the balcony of his estate. There's unsaid things between both of them- _important_ unsaid things-but instead of actually _addressing_ them they're exchanging pleasantries, keeping a safe distance from each other.

Her phone buzzes on the coffee table.

She pauses the movie, brushes the crumbs off of her shirt, and leans over to look at her phone.

It's Ben, with a single-worded message:

**Hi.**


End file.
